Hail Mary
by The Solar Surfer
Summary: Lance is hanging onto life by a thread, and Booth is helpless to do anything. He can only sit, and wait, and pray. Some light shipping, not really the focus. Rewrite/denial of Lance's death.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

 **2:14PM**

" _C'mon, Sweets. Don't do this to me_."

The truck was long gone before they ever reached him.

 _"The world is a lot better than you think it is. It's…"_

" _Don't talk, don't talk. It's okay, buddy, we're here."_

A rasping choke. Blood on the kid's lips. The words couldn't make it out, but Booth could see him struggling, swallowing, trying to make the sounds.

Not him. Not the kid. Why did it have to be Sweets?

" _Wait, Sweets? No, wait, no, don't stop talking! Lance? Lance!"_

All it left behind were smudged tire tracks, still warm. And a body, growing colder.

Lance closed his eyes. His mouth stopped moving.

Panic. " _No, no, no —"_

Not like this. Not like this.

He pressed both hands to Lance's chest. This is what people do to save lives. But as soon as he put pressure, Lance groaned, and Booth felt the sickening crack of already-broken bones giving out under his palms. Booth recoiled, horrified, barely containing a gasp. Oh, God, did he just make it worse?

His hands shook. Covered in blood.

" _Lance, c'mon man, don't do this, don't do this to me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry —"_

There had to be a way to fix this. There just had to be. Please, God, don't let this kid die, he's too good, this wasn't right, they weren't fast enough, it was all his fault —

"Booth."

Her voice.

Her hand, squeezing his arm. Temperance Brennan, the bedrock in a swirling sandstorm of chaos that was now Booth's life. The tears in her eyes matched the burning in his. At the sight of it, Booth couldn't hold back anymore, letting out a half-strangled sob. She said something, but he couldn't hear it over the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. He could only shake his head, already knowing what she was trying to say.

Brennan spoke again, in a lower voice, "Booth — _Seeley_. Seeley, look at me. We can't help him, it's too la—"

"Don't say it's too late!" Booth shrugged of her arm. She was already shaking her head, and Booth understood what it meant. But he refused to believe it. "Don't say that! It's not — it can't be, we're here, it's what we _do_ —"

Booth would've gone on, forever if it he had to, if it meant everything would be okay; but his voice broke. He dropped his head, shame heating his face. He failed Brennan. He failed Lance. He swallowed, forcing down the lump in his throat. _All my fault._

Brennan put her hand back on his arm — not bracing or reproachful, but gentle, comforting, just as sirens appeared. Distant at first, but getting closer fast. He picked up his head, wondering what a godsend it was that had the ambulances arriving so soon.

(It was Brennan, of course. Booth didn't realize he knocked the phone out of her hand until later, and reminded himself to apologize for it).

Lance's chest rose and fell rapidly. Blood from his nose, all over his face. It started to pool beneath him. It was too much, just too much.

Booth had been in this job long enough to see the myriad of ways a man could die.

It didn't always take a bullet. There were far more brutal ways to go.

He just wished he didn't have to see them all.

"What happened?"

A new voice. A paramedic? The world was a blur beyond Lance. Booth couldn't make out the newcomer's face, couldn't even remember the color of the man's skin later.

All he knew were the words he heard, the hand he had wrapped tightly around Lance's arm, his hand. It was already growing cold. Lance's fingers stopped responding minutes ago. But Booth didn't let go. It was as if he could somehow hang on to the kid's life, keep him here just a little bit longer. Just long enough. _Please, let it be enough._

"He was hit by a-a car — no, a truck!" Booth shook his head, frustrated as he stumbled over his own words, stammering, slowing the paramedic down. Another one kneeled down by Lance's head, pressed a finger to his neck, had a bag-valve in her hand. She said nothing as she checked her watch, before wrapping the end of the bag-valve, a mask, to Sweets' face. Something bright orange flashed in the corner of Booth's vision, and he looked down, startled to see the male paramedic carrying a backboard.

Hands pulled on his shoulders, and Booth could only watch, helpless, as Lance's life was taken into new, strange hands. Could he trust them? Could they save them? Did they have any idea what was going on, what was at stake here?

Did they know who to blame?

"Booth, we have to go."

"No, no, I have to stay. I have to make sure he's okay —"

"Let the EMTs do their job. You're in their way." Somehow Brennan managed to sound calm despite all of this.

Booth had no idea how she did it, how she wasn't choking down tears, how she didn't seem to feel any pain. But if he looked at her face, it would only make it worse. Instead, Booth kept his eyes on Sweets — watching with a painful twist in his gut as the paramedics strapped him onto the backboard and, in one smooth move, lifted him up and into the waiting ambulance.

Before Booth could even think of the idea of following them inside, the ambulance was already taking off, sirens screaming.

He stumbled to his feet, reaching out with one forlorn hand at the fast receding vehicle as it peeled out of the garage. His hands were bloody, gravel stuck to his palms. His knees were wet, too, dark red stains — suit ruined, not like he didn't have enough of these anyways...

Booth's words weren't much more than mere babbling. "N-no, no, I have to go with them, I can't leave him alone, Sweets, he's — he's just a kid. I-I-I don't want him to be scared, he's all alone, he doesn't know — he doesn't know…"

"He knows, Seeley. He knows."

Brennan had taken his hand, was already pulling him the other way. The wrong way. Yet Booth had no energy to resist her, could only watch helplessly at the empty exit. He ran a hand through his hair, down his face — didn't even care that he had blood smeared all over him now. It seemed fitting, in a horrible way. Booth had killed Lance just as much as that truck had.

Brennan was ushering, pushing him into the car. Booth didn't resist; he was more mannequin than man now, all his parts just movable, useless pieces.

He slumped against the hood. His hands were numb. That's when his cell started to ring — which he answered automatically, not even checking to see the caller ID. His voice was dull. "H-hello?"

" _Agent Booth, I was just informed of what happened with Dr. Sweets,"_ he recognized the voice of his boss instantly. Of course the director of the FBI would be alerted, when one of their own was attacked. Because that's what Lance was. He was one of them. " _I got everyone on high alert, looking for the son of a bitch who did this."_

"Good, good, that's good." Booth could only nod dumbly. "What do you need me to do? We know who he is, wh-where he might've gone, we can go after him —"

" _No, Agent Booth. I need you to go home."_

Booth blinked, his mind going blank at those impossible words. "…What? No, s-sir, I can't, I can't go home, I-I got work to do —"

" _You're not chasing no serial killer while you're crying like a goddamn soap opera,"_ was the retort, which Booth humbly accepted. It was only now he felt the tears, and wiped half-heartedly at his face. At least he was spared the humiliation of being seen like this by his colleagues. " _I don't want any backtalk, just go home, Booth. That's an order. You're no good to anyone this way._ "

Booth hated those words, hated that they were right. Brennan had paused beside him; could she hear the director? Could she see what it was doing to Booth? But not even his own pride stopped him from following an order. "…Yes, sir, I understand."

" _Good. I'll keep you updated on the situation. Just get some rest and recollect yourself, got it? I need you at your best tomorrow."_

Tomorrow? There was no tomorrow. Booth didn't even know what was going to happen in the next five minutes, although he certainly didn't want it to be spent at home, doing nothing, being utterly fucking useless.

The call ended, and Booth's arm dropped, hanging limp at his side. What was he going to do now?

Brennan, of course, took charge of the situation, as usual not asking for his input. She held out her hand. "Give me the keys, I'll drive."

"What? No, it's _my_ car —" and yet Booth somehow remembered himself long enough to know he didn't like Brennan behind the wheel.

She came to an abrupt stop, pressing her hands to his chest and keeping him back even as Booth tried to make for the driver's side door. "No, Booth! You're in no state to drive. I heard what your boss said. You're emotionally compromised!"

"What? And you're _not_?" He demanded, searching that face, those hazel eyes, for the weakness he felt. "Is Lance lying on the ground, bleeding out, not goddamn good enough for you?"

"Seeley!" her snap was sharp, and full of hurt, and Booth immediately regretted saying that. Her hands dropped from his chest, shoulders slumping, and she shook her head. Her dark hair, usually so well-kept, was askew and frazzled. It was the first time he looked at her. _Really_ looked at her. Brennan's eyes were red. There were tear tracks down her cheeks. There was blood on her hands, too. "That's not fair, and you know it. Of course I am, but this is not the time to be debating who gets to drive. Just give me the keys. I promise to be safe."

Reluctantly, Booth relented, pulling the keys from his pocket and handing them to her. She was right, after all. Temperance was always right about this sort of stuff, and Booth couldn't help but feel a little relieved when he slid into the passenger seat — his thoughts were everywhere, his ears were ringing, and his hands were shaking, covered in blood — not like Brennan's, whose hands were steady as she put the key in the ignition and smoothly reversed the car.

Instead, as she hit the road, she took the wrong turn, and Booth switched his head to her in surprise. "W-what? Bones, where are we going?"

Her eyes met his. "The hospital, of course."

* * *

 **So this is mostly a cathartic piece. I was not happy with Lance's death or the way he was treated afterwards and it actually made me stop watching Bones altogether for a while. This is me resetting a personal slight lol.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it took so long for me to update. I really appreciate the feedback I got, it's reaffirming to know I'm not the only one dissatisfied with what they did to Lance. Sorry if my last comment was off-putting, but it really did put me off the show. What can I say? Lance was my favorite character.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **4:25PM**

"He's still in surgery."

Booth sat slumped in the hospital waiting room. He didn't pick his eyes up off the floor. Dr. Milliken's feet were just to his left. He could feel the man's gaze on him, but wasn't surprised by the news. He'd already overheard while the doctor was on the way here.

Brennan sat next to him. She perked up from his seat. "H-how long will it be? Is Dr. Sweets going to be okay?"

Dr. Sweets. Booth wasn't sure he'd ever heard such respect in Brennan's voice before. She was usually so derisive of Sweets efforts to help them. Granted, Booth had been like that, too, but at least he put in some good-natured ribbing. Brennan was always a little...insensitive.

He didn't see that now. Not the way she looked up at Mr. Milliken, eyes wide, lips pressed thin. She had been sitting right next to Booth for the past two hours. Hadn't said a word. Neither of them did. They didn't have to.

Lance was right. They were a good team.

They were a better one when he was with them.

"Hard to say. He's suffering from pneumothorax. One lung has collapsed, another is punctured. I'm counting ten rib fractures. And there's a spinal injury to account for. He's drowning in his own blood and —

"Okay, okay, we get the picture!" Booth blurted, throwing up his hands before the man could go on. It was too much. Collapsed lung? Drowning in blood? Spinal injury? God, maybe it would've been easier if Lance had died after all…

Booth immediately took that back. Prayed to God that he didn't mean it. There was still a chance Lance wouldn't make it. And he _had_ to make it.

"S-sorry," Dr. Milliken stammered, shuffling back. He was a unassuming, middle-aged man with a receding hairline, and easily intimidated by the much larger, much louder FBI agent. "I understand you're close friends of his. I didn't mean to alarm. I'll, um, I'll return when the surgery is finished, let you know how it went."

He couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

Booth huffed, falling back into his seat, head in his hands. There were several eyes on them now, including a few orderlies. Booth hadn't meant to be so loud, he was just so keyed-up…

"Seeley," a hand rested on his, pulled it away from his hair, from where he'd been pulling it. Came to rest between him and Brennan. She squeezed his hand, her skin callused but warm. Their fingers intertwined. "It's going to be all right. Dr. Milliken is a professional ER doctor, he's completed many successful operations before this. Lance is in good hands."

"Well, excuse me, I don't like to count my eggs before they hatch," Booth muttered, but his hand tightened around hers nonetheless. In the end, there was no one else he'd rather be here than Brennan. Her calm rationality was his rock in a raging river, and he was glad she had the confidence he didn't.

He looked down at their hands. His were still covered in blood.

Brennan seemed to notice as well. "Maybe you should go clean up a little? Your face is covered in blood. I think it's disturbing the other patients here…"

Oh. Booth lifted a hand to his face absentmindedly. Maybe _that's_ why everyone was staring. "Yeah, I guess you're right…"

He got up, shoulders heaving. It felt like he was lifting a semi. Just finding the bathroom sounded like the most impossible journey right now. He didn't want to leave Brennan alone. He didn't want to miss any important news.

Nevertheless, Booth stepped forward. One foot in front of the other.

* * *

 **~o~**

* * *

 **6:48PM**

Hodgins brought take-out.

About an hour ago the rest of the team arrived, in various states of fear, mourning, or anxiety. Daisy was an absolute wreck. She didn't last more than thirty minutes before breaking out into tears so awful that it was distracting to even the nurses. Eventually, it was Angela who offered to take her home, help Daisy get some rest. Dr. Saroyan promised to keep them updated.

The four of them sat there in silence, having commandeered a circle of seats for themselves. They ate in silence. Booth couldn't even taste the food.

Mr. Milliken had arrived during the middle of their awful feast to tell them that Lance had made it through surgery. A moment of relief passed between them. Hodgins gripped Booth's shoulder. Saroyan hugged Brennan, and Brennan didn't even recoil.

The good news ended when Dr. Milliken said, "But it's still touch-and-go. He has another surgery schedule in six hours. There are pieces of bone still floating inside his ribcage and still present a danger to his health…"

Booth tuned out after that. He could handle death. Dead bodies were already dead. Mutilated or not, at least he didn't have to think that there was any pain or suffering as Bones and her played jigsaw with the skeletal remains.

After Dr. Milliken left, Dr. Saroyan stood up, pulling her cell from her pocket. "I'm going to call Angela. Hopefully Daisy's asleep by now…"

Then it was just the three of them for a while. Hodgins was unusually quiet for a squint. Booth could always count on him for a sarcastic comment on any given situation, warranted or not. But now he was silent, staring at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him. But Booth didn't fail to notice the strained tendons, the white knuckles.

"We should be out there," Hodgins eventually said, lifting his head to look at them. "We need to find the guy who did this, end this fucking conspiracy bullshit."

Brennan frowned. "We can't. The director of the FBI has called us off —

"Oh, like that ever stopped you before!" Hodgins retorted, then turned to Booth. "Come on, man, back me up here! We have to do something, right? Lance is our friend! The longer we stay here, the more time his killer gets away!"

But Booth didn't say anything. Not right away. He felt their eyes on him, so felt compelled to speak. His voice was quiet. "I'm not leaving."

Hodgins faltered when he wasn't met with resounding encouragement. "Booth?"

"I'm staying here," Booth said, louder, straightening his back to look both Hodgins and Brennan in the eye. Both shared a look of surprise. "I'm the reason Lance is here. I'm not leaving until he does."

Brennan blinked, stunned. "Booth, you're not saying… you think its your fault?"

"Isn't it?" Booth turned to her, pleading. "I'm the reason we're in this mess to begin with. Whoever's behind this has been trying to frame me. Hell, they sent agents to kill us, Bones, you don't think that says something? We should've warned Lance. I shouldn't have let him get into the line of fire. He's just — he's just a _kid —_

"He's an FBI agent," Hodgins pointed out, raising his eyebrows. "He carries the same gun you do, Booth. Lance knew the risks when he took the job. No one joins the FBI because they think it's a safe career path."

"No, but…" Booth let out a frustrated noise, running both hands over his head. Why didn't Hodgins see? It wasn't just about the job. "Lance doesn't have the same experience, okay? He had no idea what he was going into. If I had been there, if I'd gone with him, then —

"You'd what?" Brennan demanded, scowling now. The sudden anger in her face actually made Booth do a double-take. She threw up her hand, said, "You'd get hit instead? You, in the hospital, on the edge of death? We'd all be here anyways, wouldn't we? And Lance would feel just as guilty as you. I bet he'd say he wasn't as good enough an agent as you, that he should've been better. You can't win here, Booth. The only person responsible for hurting Lance is the one who hit him with that truck. And I trust that the criminal will be found. If not by us, then by someone else. They won't get away with this."

Booth and Hodgins stared at her, mildly impressed. Brennan was breathing hard, then relaxed her shoulders, falling back into her seat. "Wow, that was a rush."

Hodgins and Booth shared a look. Hodgins opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Saroyan's return.

"Sorry, that took longer than I thought. Turned out Daisy wasn't asleep after all…" Saroyan sounded out of breath, and she flopped into the seat opposite Brennan. She paused, glanced between the three of them. "...did I miss something?"  
"Nah," Hodgins shook his head, before offering her some dumplings. "Just your average emotional speech from Brennan. No big deal."

Saroyan's eyes flicked to Brennan, disbelieving. It took her a second to accept the offered food. "Well, I guess if there's a time for that, it'd be today."

"I wouldn't get used to it," Brennan said, looking a little peeved. But Bones caught the faint traces of a smile as she returned to her noodles again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

 **6:53AM**

Dr. Millikan said Lance would get better after the second surgery.

He didn't.

Lance was now in a coma.

He lied in the gurney across from Booth, still and pale. There were tubes in his mouth, nose, and chest. Dark circles under his eyes. IVs in his arm. He already looked dead.

The cardiogram beeped regularly. The respirator wheezed. Booth wanted to cover his ears. He couldn't stand the noise.

Booth still wasn't completely clear on what had happened. Apparently, something went wrong with the anesthesia. Lance stopped breathing in the middle of surgery, right on the operating table. It took the doctors and nurses one minute and thirteen seconds to revive him.

But it was already too late. The damage was done. Lance was supposed to have woken up hours ago.

Now Lance was on life support. Dr. Millikan was looking for relatives to inform. Booth knew there weren't any. Just them, a bunch of squints and a thick-headed FBI agent were all that was left of Lance Sweet's family.

Dr. Millikan didn't say it, but everyone knew what he was thinking — that there was nothing left but for Lance to stop breathing again. That they were just waiting for him to die now.

Maybe it would be quicker just to pull the plug. Rip it off like a band aid.

But Seeley Booth categorically refused. To let someone die was as good as murder. He wouldn't have it. His God wouldn't have it. And Booth wasn't going to let anyone else get close enough to try. If they wanted Lance to die, they had to get through him first.

Booth didn't know what else to do. So he prayed.

" _Hail Mary, full of Grace…_ "

Brennan had left to go do squint stuff. Apparently the FBI still needed their forensics after all. Or maybe she was going stir-crazy; she'd been pacing before she left, a nervous habit that said more than words. Angela and Hodgins went with her. Saroyan stayed a little longer, but duty called her back as well.

That left Booth alone to stand vigil, waiting. Waiting.

He was still in yesterday's suit. There was no point in changing now. Wasn't going to help any. Booth wasn't going to feel happy or clean or safe until this was all over with.

One way or another.

" _The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women…_ "

He hadn't slept. Hadn't ate since last evening. His stomach grumbled. His eyelids drooped. But Booth slapped himself. Pinched his skin. He wasn't going to fall asleep. Not at Lance's bedside, not when everything was at stake.

It was so quiet in here. They had given Lance a private room. They knew he was going to die, so they afforded the team some privacy. The mint green walls seemed to mock Booth. Too cheerful, too clean. That antiseptic smell was starting to stick to him, become a permanent fixture in his head. There were fake paintings on the wall, ugly flowers and fruits. Maybe it was meant to be peaceful, calming. But it had the exact opposite effect on Booth.

He wanted to tear down those paintings. He wanted to scratch the paint off the walls. Pull the windows shut, block out the dawn. Why should a room look like this?

God, he was just a kid. Lance deserved better than this.

" _And blessed is the fruit, of thy womb, Jesus_."

It made it all the worse that Booth knew about Lance's past. He'd seen the scars on the kid's back. Heard about what happened to his parents, his grand-parents. Booth himself didn't have a particularly fantastic childhood, but damn if he wasn't a little grateful after hearing what happened to Lance Sweets.

This shouldn't be how he left his earth. He had just lost his family a few years ago. Was just starting to build a new one. The kid just couldn't catch a break. This should be the way his life ended.

" _Holy Mary, Mother of God,_ "

The wheezing, the breathing. God, it sounded painful. Even under the sheets Booth could see the brace keeping Lance's back together. Vertebrae were fractured. Lance would be fine, presumably, if he ever woke up. But the healing process would be hard.

If he ever made it that far.

He had to. Booth would accept no other outcome.

Please wake up. Please.

" _Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death_."

Golden sunlight spilled into the room, casting the ceiling in a brilliant glow. As the minutes past, it descended, inch by inch. It fell across Booth, and the gurney next to him.

How long would this last? How long could he take this?

Booth's head was bowed in prayer. He squeezed his eyes shut as the light pierced him. Had he looked up, he might've seen Lance flinch, eyes flickering beneath the glare of the sun.

" _Amen._ "

It wasn't much, but Booth felt like it couldn't hurt. He rarely prayed openly, or out loud, but he wasn't embarrassed then. He was alone in this room, no one to overhear him.

That is, until he heard a groan.

Booth's head shot up.

Lance's eyes were open. He turned his head away from the window, but the movement was sluggish, dreary. He tried to lift a hand, maybe to block his eyes, but didn't have the strength to raise it more than a few inches.

A mumble, some words. Booth didn't hear them. He was already at the bedside, staring down, heart leaping into his throat. "Sweets? Buddy? You okay?"

He sounded like an idiot. But Booth didn't care. He was grinning and crying at the same time, too happy.

"Booth?" Lance mumbled, squinting up at him. He looked utterly baffled, less pained and more tired. "Did we...did we get him…?"

That made him laugh, which hurt because he was also starting to cry a little now. "Yeah, buddy, we got him, thanks to you. You dumb idiot. Why did you go alone?"

"Thought I had it handled…" Lance said, frowning down at himself. He seemed unable to comprehend his injuries or how he'd gotten them. "Wha...what happened? I remember going into the...the garage but after that it's just...nothing."

"He hit you with his truck," Booth said, and when Lance tried to get up, he gently pushed him back down. "Hey, take it easy, Sweets. You're banged up pretty good."

"A truck?" Lance repeated, making a face like he just tasted a bad lemon. Color was already returning to his face. Sedatives slurred his speech. Booth wondered if he'd remember this conversation later. "I really...I really fucked up this time, didn't I?"

"No more than usual," Booth said, then punched him lightly on the arm. Lance made a noise of complaint. "Yeah, that's for making me worry, you bastard."

Lance looked up at him, eyes round. "You were worried about me? Aww, Booth."

Booth might've actually taken that seriously if there wasn't a shit-eating grin growing across Lance's face. He scowled. "It's not funny, man. You were in a coma. I swear to God, I'm the cowboy here, I'm the one who's supposed to be running off into danger, not you. Don't ever do that to me again, you understand? "

"Are you grounding me?"

Lance was sarcastic, or as sarcastic as he could be having just woken up from a coma. Booth was not amused. "Well, you're not going to be walking for sometime soon, so I'd count on it."

"Aw, man." Lance pouted, his gaze sliding over to the bedside table. He frowned. "Why are there so many ducks? Am I high?"

"No, no, those are ducks," Booth sighed. There were at least half a dozen toy ducks, stuffed animals and plastic rubber duckies laid out with the sympathy flowers. Angela had gone a little crazy with the gift shop a couple floors down. Brennan may or may not have helped. "It's a, uh, inside joke. Don't worry about it."

"Wait, what's the joke? I don't get it."

"I _said_ , don't worry about it."

Lance reached for a card before Booth could stop him. "Hey, Baby Duck, miss you — wait, is that my nickname? Is that what you guys call me behind my back?"

"What? No, of course not."

"You guys gave me a nickname and didn't even tell me!"

"You already have a nickname! It's Sweets!"

"But where did Baby Duck come from? What does it mean?"

"Just forget about it, Sweets. You're high. Go back to sleep."

It was too late. Lance was wide awake now, and Booth just slumped back into his seat, head in hands. He was exhausted. He didn't have the energy to deal with these questions.

But he was smiling nonetheless.

 _Fin._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! It's a short fic, but it makes me happy. I hope it makes someone else happy too :)**


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